


Hold Me, But Not Too Close

by bbjkrss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Light BDSM, M/M, Misunderstandings, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbjkrss/pseuds/bbjkrss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post TGG with alternate ending. John has been coaxing Sherlock towards intimacy, but due to the incident at the pool and Moriarty's subsequent interference, his anxiety has returned. He doesn't want to tell John, however, and tries to force himself to accept John's affections, hurting himself when he cannot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As with Another X on the Calendar, this fic is posted on my writing tumblr. I've decided not to edit the fic, though I will add explanations in the notes and may change chapter breaks in order to make the timeline more understandable (there are two timelines and a few person/tense changes throughout the story).
> 
> This was my first attempt at a Sherlock fic with an actual plot- I don't think it's terribly OOC, but I may slip up at points. Please be gentle with me, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Italics in this chapter are Sherlock's thoughts/memories. Yes, I've tweaked Moriarty's dialogue. ;P

            “Is this how we’re sleeping now?”

            “Hm?” Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow, blinking blearily up John. “Sleeping how?”

            John pointed. His pyjamas had vertical stripes and were perhaps the only set Sherlock had ever seen with that pattern. It was endearing, in a “look at me! I have no fashion sense!” type of way. Sherlock allowed a lazy smile to drift over his face, then realised he’d completely missed what John had said. “What was that?”

            John sighed. “I said you’re backwards in bed, you brilliant git. And you haven’t even put the sheets back on. What’d you spill on them this time?”

            “Sodium hypochlorite,” Sherlock replied without thinking. He raised himself up onto his forearms, suppressing a wince as a half-healed slice on his thigh stuck to his pyjamas. Distantly he heard John repeating the words to himself, trying to place the chemical.

            “Bleach? What were you bleaching the sheets for? They were green!”

            “You said yourself it was an accident,” Sherlock argued, but his tone was mild, as was John’s. There was little these days that could make John truly mad at him, which warmed his chest and made him want to needle his partner in equal measure.

            “Tell me, then,” John was saying as he stretched out next to Sherlock on the bed. “When did I say it was an accident?”

            Sherlock breathed in deeply through his nose as John curled an arm about his waist and shifted his legs a bit so he was lying on his side with John at his back. There were no cuts on the outsides of his thighs, so hopefully he’d be more comfortable. “You implied it when you said ‘spill’.” He could feel John smiling into the back of his neck. “And it _was_ an accident, in any case. I only meant to spot treat one or two stains and I knocked over the bottle onto the sheets.”

            “Because you hadn’t slept in… how many hours?”

            “Thirty-eight,” Sherlock murmured. John’s hand was in his hair, now, stroking, and he could feel the muscles throughout his body loosening. “Which is nowhere near my limit, by the way.”

            “I never said it was,” John said with a yawn. “Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

            Which was something Sherlock was perfectly willing to do- despite the logical half of his brain reminding him of the forty-six other things he could be doing at that moment, thirteen of which were experiment-related- but John’s hand was wandering _again,_ this time down his ribs towards his left hip. Sherlock tensed. “John-”

            “I’m not going to molest you, Sherlock.” John’s voice was only half-coherent. Likely he was telling the truth, then. “’M just trying to get comfortable. You’re all bones.”

            Which was true, in a manner of speaking, but now the itching was back and Sherlock twitched irritably, unable to keep himself still. “I have to use the bathroom.”

            “Sherlock…”

            “Just go to sleep. I’ll be right back.” Sherlock slipped out from under John’s lax grip and darted out of the room. He slammed the door behind him and paused, listening, for a moment to make sure John wasn’t following, then proceeded more sedately downstairs to his own bedroom.

 -

            The box wasn’t particularly well hidden, but that was part of his genius. It sat in the second drawer of his bedside table, not too high to suggest any undue importance, but not too low as to seem intentionally hidden. The contents were perfectly innocuous as well: a shiny silver, reusable razor with several new cartridges, all organized and neat with not a speck of blood or skin cell to be found; he cleaned and disinfected each blade carefully after use.

            Sherlock removed the box from its drawer, opened it, and with practiced ease removed the top blade from his current cartridge. The sharpness of the metal sent a tingle of anticipation sparking over his skin. He studied the blade for a moment, dispassionately, and then removed himself to the bathroom. He preferred to do this in a room without quite so much white, but he hadn’t yet had a chance to replace his bedroom door (broken when John, convinced by a nightmare that Sherlock had been abducted by Moriarty, had shoved it in) and if John came downstairs he’d expect Sherlock to be in the bathroom, after all.

            He sat down on the closed toilet and carefully, just in case any other cuts had decided to attach themselves to his pyjama bottoms, bared his thighs down to the knee and inspected the results of his earlier session. He’d limited himself to three cuts, one for each minute he’d spent panicking after failing to let John touch him once again.

            Apart from the one he’d newly re-opened, they looked fine. Good. Sherlock stood to retrieve the isopropyl alcohol from the cabinet over the sink. If he were being more objective (and it pained him that he was so compromised in this), he would realise that this was a completely ridiculous reaction to his… fears, if he would go so far to call them that. Compunctions, perhaps. But the whole thing was ridiculous.

            Sherlock didn’t wince as he dabbed at the cuts with an alcohol-soaked cotton swab. The pain was familiar by now, and he instead focused on identifying every variation of colour as his blood stained the tiny, wispy threads. He wasn’t worried about John finding out; he was very good at hiding his pain, and he kept the cuts clustered around his upper thighs, where John was not permitted to touch.

            Though, that was precisely the point for this whole frustrating situation. Sherlock swiped a fresh swab of alcohol over a blank patch of pale skin and sat back to pick up his razor. If John could touch, or, more precisely, if Sherlock would allow him to, there would be no reason for the cuts at all. If the pool incident hadn’t happened, he might have done already. Sherlock touched the edge of the razor to his skin and waited for his mind to calm.

            _“I should get myself a live-in one, too. They’re so loyal.”_

            Sherlock grimaced and made a controlled slice, approximately three centimetres long, below the others.

            _“Does he do everything you say, Sherlock? Do you make him touch you? But no, you’re the_ virgin, _I remember. What a shame. Johnny-boy here’s been telling me about all the naughty things he’d like to do to you.”_

            Another, four centimetres.

            _Your eyes shoot to John’s face and you can’t help but feel the betrayal that burns like ice as it spreads throughout your limbs. He’d promised to keep it a secret. Though logically you know Moriarty is lying, the shame makes you want to fold in on yourself and hide, and your hand holding the gun begins to tremble._

_“What do you think he wants, Sherlock?” Moriarty is speaking almost directly into your ear but you cannot move to shove him away. John’s eyes are trying to tell you something, he is desperate, but there’s a buzzing in your ears and you cannot translate, you can only listen stupidly as Moriarty whispers on._

            Another, four and a half this time. Sherlock took a moment to steady his hand; the cut had been jagged and he needed to do this precisely or…

            _It’s all ruined, now. All of John’s hard work, gone in mere moments. Weeks of endured touches- a hand on the shoulder, a pat on the knee- leading up to the tolerance of a simple hug and a kiss on the cheek, as if you’re five years old. John was going to teach you proper kissing once this case was over, you remember. But Moriarty is filling your head with images of whips and blood and pain, and although you know that John would never hurt you, the adrenaline rushes through your system anyway and you want to scream but you can’t so you turn and throw Moriarty as hard as you can into the pool-_

            Sherlock gasped. The memories faded from his vision and he could see the new cut, gaping across his inner thigh, almost six and a half centimetres long. Deep. The razor slipped from his suddenly limp fingers; it landed on the tiles with a metallic tinkle and tiny drops of blood spattered across the floor, crimson on bluish white.

            There was no way John wouldn’t notice this one, unobservant though he was. Sherlock scrambled for the toilet roll, grabbing a fistful and applying pressure to the wound. It would interfere with functionality, require more time to heal and a proper bandage… His hands fumbled with the alcohol and several drops splashed from the bottle and ran down his leg over the cuts.

            “F-” Sherlock bit down on the curse until his lip bled and dug his nails into his palms. John couldn’t hear; he’d worry and come downstairs, and he’d _find out_. This was under control. He’d just misjudged the force; he’d bandage it and it would all be fine.

            Keeping the wad of paper pressed firmly against the cut, Sherlock returned to the cabinet and took out some gauze pads, as well as some tape. He then dropped the paper and replaced it with two pads, holding them in place with one hand while he taped them with the other. Once he was sure the bandage was secure, he pulled his pyjamas back up and wiped up the drops of blood on the floor with fresh paper and a few more drops of alcohol. Finally he gathered up all the soaked paper and flushed it down the toilet and put away the first aid supplies. The razor he threw away. He tried to wash his hands properly, but he’d already been away from John for so long, he couldn’t plausibly pass this off as a normal trip to the bathroom. Perhaps he’d feign exhaustion- no, he’d been wide awake when he left, that would be suspicious. He could claim that he’d gotten distracted by an old case, by some piece of evidence or page of notes lying around. That would be more plausible (though in actuality they had not taken any cases in the last two weeks besides those of Moriarty’s and as a rule Sherlock did not leave files on solved cases lying around), and with John already being half-asleep, there was a high probability he’d accept the explanation in favour of getting to sleep faster.

            Sherlock emerged from the bathroom feeling, if not quite confident, at the very least capable of handling a semiconscious John. He sprinted up the stairs, purposefully stepping on the creaky stair to alert John to his presence, and paused outside the bedroom door. He could faintly hear breathing from inside. Very regular breathing. With a frown, Sherlock pushed open the door.

            John lay sprawled on the bed, left arm flung out over where Sherlock would have been, had he stayed. He was facing away from the door, and seemed to be sleeping calmly. It was strange; a week before, Sherlock wouldn’t have thought twice about squirming under John’s arms and nuzzling into his chest, no matter how irate John would get at being awoken, because then John would rub his hands up and down Sherlock’s back, making sure to stay on top of his shirt, and although it would make him shiver, Sherlock wouldn’t flinch away. Now…

            Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, suddenly mindful of his smarting leg. Maybe he ought not disturb John. He was already asleep and besides, he would just ask questions and be concerned, and Sherlock didn’t particularly want to deal with caring-John at the moment.

            No. He’d gone downstairs for a reason, and he’d promised John he’d come back. If John wasn’t awake to enjoy the gesture, that was entirely Sherlock’s fault.

            Tentatively, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. He wouldn’t bother going to get new sheets; that would only disturb John, and they’d hardly get chilled, sleeping together. He lay down facing John’s back and placed his arm over John’s waist. No change in his breathing. Good. Sherlock settled himself and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. John still smelled of the shower. It was a calming scent, though Sherlock would probably never tell him that. He pressed a quick kiss into the back of John’s neck and then laid his head down, waiting for sleep to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. The number of hits already is amazing. Thank you to those who've read and given kudos, you guys are awesome!

            The sound of John’s door opening and closing woke Sherlock from a light doze. Blinking listlessly, he glanced over his shoulder, then lay his head back down on the arm of the sofa. His back was to the stairs, but he could hear John’s steps well enough to pinpoint his location as he came down into the flat proper.

            John paused at the bottom of the stairs for two seconds before sighing, part fond and part exasperated. Likely he was disappointed at waking up alone, but was pleased to see that Sherlock was still in the flat. He began to approach the sofa, paused, probably raising his hand- Sherlock suppressed a flinch- and then John’s hand was ruffling his curls gently.

            “You awake?” John whispered. Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and twisted his shoulders so that he was facing the ceiling, eyes still closed. John chuckled low in his throat and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock couldn’t quite hold back his twitch that time, but as John’s eyes were presumably closed as well, it was a forgivable lapse.

            “I thought you’d run out on a case,” John said. His voice hadn’t moved; he was still standing next to the couch.

            “And leave you behind?” Sherlock replied, more lightly than he felt. He stretched out his legs, kneading his toes against the far arm to try and relieve some of his body’s tension. “Never.” His chest felt tight and he wanted nothing more than for John to leave. _This was an especially fun one to hear about, Sherlock._ An image swam in front of his eyes of John standing over him, looking down at a network of ropes tied tightly around Sherlock’s limbs, pinning his arms behind his back and exposing his bare body for all to see. For he was naked, and the cuts stood out starkly on his pale thighs like red ink on paper, and then John leaned in to examine them, touch them, except his fingers sank like claws into the flesh and the blood began to flow again but Sherlock could do nothing but lie there and watch as John tore and tore at him until-

            “Sherlock? Are you all right?”

            His eyes snapped open; John was standing over him, true, but instead of a predatory expression, he seemed only concerned.

            “Your lip’s cut.” John leaned forward, hand outstretched to inspect, but Sherlock jerked away. Three touches in less than three minutes, and he couldn’t tolerate any of them. He wasn’t surprised to see John’s frown, but he couldn’t stand to look at it, either. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

            “I’m fine, I-” His mobile chose that moment to ring again. Though he would rather pull down his trousers and explain the cuts to John at that moment than look at his texts, he grabbed his phone from the coffee table and unlocked it, making sure that the screen was tilted away from John as he did so. “Lestrade.” He glanced up at John; his eyes were more intrigued than concerned now, but the space between his eyebrows was still furrowed. “He’s been texting me off and on all night,” Sherlock continued. “That’s why I came back downstairs. I didn’t want to bother you.”

            “That still doesn’t explain how you cut your lip,” John said, but his posture had relaxed exponentially. He’d been that upset over waking up alone?

            “I honestly can’t remember.” Sherlock locked his phone and tucked it away into a pocket of his dressing gown. “You know my body’s not particularly high on my list of priorities, John.”

            “I know that far too well.” John took a step towards the kitchen, presumably to make some tea, then paused. “What was Lestrade texting you all night about? If it was that difficult, surely you’d have gone in.”

            Sherlock shifted on the couch as he flicked through a list of potential cases that would have baffled Scotland Yard without being particularly interesting, but then a better idea occurred to him.

            “I didn’t want to leave,” he replied at last. “Leaving the bedroom was no trouble, you were sleeping fine on your own and I’d be close enough to hear if you had another nightmare. Leaving the flat, however, would only have led to a heightening of your emotional distress had you awoken and found me gone. Besides-” he couldn’t resist throwing in the barb, “-it was nothing I couldn’t figure out from text messag… What’s the matter?”

            John was staring at him, head tilted and brows furrowed, but in a different expression than before. He seemed… surprised. “You actually thought that out? How I’d react if I’d had another one of those…” He waved his hand in a vague gesture. “You mean you actually cared?”

            Sherlock kept his eyes locked on John’s. “I saw how you reacted to the first one, and that was with me present. I’d rather you not go through the experience again.” At least that was the truth. It never seemed right that a man so strong in wakefulness should be so tormented in his dreams. Even before their “relationship” had started, Sherlock had never enjoyed hearing John’s cries and seeing the dark circles under his eyes the mornings after. The fact that he had helped John in so many other ways but could not help him in this made him feel impotent, and it irritated him.

            For a long moment, John simply looked at him, saying nothing. After a minute he averted his eyes and nodded firmly. “Well. Thanks.”

            A smile pulled at Sherlock’s lips. “Go make your tea. I’ll be here when you get back.” These were the moments he lived for with John, the ones that warmed his chest and made him want to curl up on John’s lap and have fingers card through his hair for hours.

            _But he just tried that and all you wanted was to escape._

            Sherlock curled his fingers around the mobile in his pocket. There was no reason to believe anything that Moriarty said. The man was mad and besides, he trusted John with his life. It should go without saying that he trusted him with his body as well.

            John was still in the kitchen. Sherlock slipped the phone out of his pocket and unlocked it, quickly thumbing through to his old messages.

            _You should have known better than to put your number online, Sherlock._

_I wonder what John’s thinking about right now._

_Has he told you any of the secrets he shared with me? There were some verrrry juicy ones._

_This was an especially fun one to hear about:_

_I think I may have to steal some of his ideas._

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, we're going back in time in this one- the first two scenes take place during/after the pool. Then we come back into the present timeline for the second two scenes. I hope you enjoy.

            The splash echoed loudly in Sherlock’s ears, louder than the clatter of the gun falling to the ground or John’s voice calling his name. Moriarty’s stunned expression still hung in his mind’s eye, mouth a perfect ‘o’ as he fell backwards, arms outstretched and grabbing, into the water. For a moment the world seemed to stand still. The only sounds in the room were Moriarty’s feeble splashing and John’s panting behind him. He must have surprised the sniper as well; no bullet had immediately pierced his brain, but Sherlock didn’t want to wait around for that possibility. Quickly, he turned and darted to John’s side and began to unbutton the vest, staunchly ignoring what the action would look like.

            “Sherlock-”

            _No. Ignore him, ignore anything he says. The only thing that matters is getting out, getting safe. You can discuss it later. Just get the damn thing unbuttoned before you blow up or get shot or-_

            “Sherlock!”

            Reluctantly, he looked up at John. The doctor’s face was tense and sweating as he gestured towards Moriarty; he’d surfaced and was now making his way towards the side of the pool.

            “What are you waiting for?” John demanded. “Go get him!”

            Predictable. Sherlock made a face and, with shaking fingers, got the last two buttons undone. If the sniper hadn’t fired by this point, it was unlikely that he would at all unless Moriarty gave the order. Considering that Moriarty was still coughing and trying to clamber back up onto the tile, they had at least another minute or so. Before John could protest, Sherlock grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the exit and out into the night.

 -

            It was only when the door to 221B had shut with a bang of finality that Sherlock allowed himself to turn and look at John properly. Their flight from the pool had been a mostly silent one, with the only words spoken being terse directions to the cabbie who’d found them running flat-out along the street outside the rec centre. Sherlock’s heart still pounded unevenly in his chest. John was breathing heavily, cheeks flushed, his hands clenched into fists. Sherlock was glad to see that they did not shake, but the emotion was short-lived.

            “What the _hell_ was that?”

            “What was what?” John sounded angry. Sherlock couldn’t imagine why; neither of them had died, or even been injured. They hadn’t managed to apprehend Moriarty, no, but there would be time enough for that later. “If you mean the route the cabbie took, I thought it prudent to be more circuitous. It was highly likely that Moriarty-”

            “I don’t care about the bloody cabbie!” John snapped. “What I care about is that you let him go! The most dangerous man you’ve ever met, and you decide to just run off- you had a _gun,_ Sherlock!”

            “And he had a sniper.” Sherlock stalked off towards the kitchen, shucking his jacket as he went. “If I had retaliated any more severely than I did, we’d both be dead right now. I don’t suppose a ‘thank you’ is forthcoming?” He didn’t plan on listening to whatever response John came up with; in the space of two minutes his mood had sunk rather low, and all he wanted was a shower to give himself time to collect his thoughts.

            Except there were footsteps behind him, and then John’s hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around, and Sherlock had only a moment to glimpse John’s face- still angry, but tinged with desperation, now- before John was kissing him on the mouth.

            _Wet_ was his first impression, with _possessive_ coming a close second. John’s left hand came to tangle in his curls while his right moved from Sherlock’s shoulder to his waist, pulling him in. His teeth nipped at Sherlock’s lower lip, soft, whimpering noises tearing themselves from his throat between each kiss.

            Sherlock braced his hands against John’s chest, prepared to force himself free if necessary. This behaviour wasn’t fuelled by arousal. John was simply reacting to his adrenaline and the fact that he’d avoided death twice that night. It was highly unlikely that intercourse would be his final goal- any orgasm would suffice- but sweat still beaded on Sherlock’s palms and the air in the flat suddenly seemed to grow twice as thick.

            “John,” he choked out. John ignored him and captured his lips again, forcing him backwards until he was pressed up against the fridge. Their hips were pressed together now, but Sherlock resisted the urge to bring up a knee. He turned his head to the side, winced as the hand in his hair pulled, and tried to breathe.

            _You see? I was right._

            “John, stop!” Where the hell was Mrs Hudson? Should he try and call for her? Sherlock screwed his eyes shut as John’s kisses moved down to his neck. No, she ought not see John like this.

            “Please.” Later he would rewrite the memory to make the tremble in his voice a conscious decision, but he’d lost almost all control over his vocal cords and his voice cracked in the middle of the word. “Please, John, stop.”

            Though the hands didn’t leave his skin, they stilled, and that was enough for Sherlock to let out a shaky sigh of relief. He collapsed against the fridge, arms limp, legs not quite steady enough to hold himself upright. Sherlock kept his eyes shut as John detached himself slowly and silently, but eventually the lack of data became unbearable and he opened his eyes. John’s face was pale.

            “Sherlock, I-” John swallowed, looked down at his hands, then back up at Sherlock’s face. “Are you all right?”

            “I’m fine.” The words came out weak the first time so Sherlock cleared his throat and repeated them louder. “Really, John, it’s… it’s f-”

            “Don’t you dare say it’s fine.” John raked his fingers through his hair. “God, I just… I _know_ you don’t want anything, and here I go trying to… I assaulted you.”

            “Nothing happened,” Sherlock insisted, trying to ignore the shiver that went down his spine at John’s words. “I could have stopped you. I simply didn’t want to harm you, and it… worked, in the end.”

            John stared at him in disbelief. “You’re not seriously defending me.”

            The space behind Sherlock’s eyes was beginning to pulse. “I’m not. But I understand, and I’d rather pretend that this night never happened than have a long, drawn-out discussion over our _relationship_ and _boundaries_ that, frankly, neither of us is in the proper state of mind to have. No, I don’t even want you to apologise,” he said as John opened his mouth. “I just want…” and here his voice softened again, weary and vulnerable, “I want you to promise not to do it again.”

            “I won’t,” John said immediately. “I promise, Sherlock, I won’t touch you again.”

            Despite the automatic eye roll he made at that statement, Sherlock could feel the corner of his mouth lifting in an amused smile. “I do hope you don’t mean that literally.” He held out his arms. “Mummy always said you weren’t to leave an argument without a hug to make up, and I’d much prefer to hug you than Mycroft.”

            John smiled hesitantly and moved forward, and that really should have been the end of it, but when they pressed against each other, it was all Sherlock could do not to stiffen in John’s arms.

            John was still hard.

* * *

            “I wish Lestrade would give us a case,” John remarked. He’d come back from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, one of which he placed on the table beside Sherlock before going to sit in his usual chair. “I’m going mad in here.”

            Sherlock didn’t reply at first, tapping his mobile against his chin. A case would be a welcome distraction; his brain was growing much too wilful in the absence of stimulation. Yet Lestrade had cut them off for the time being, saying they needed some time to recuperate. (He hadn’t mentioned this to John, of course.)

            “I fancy a walk.” Sherlock rose from the couch and headed towards his room. “Get dressed and grab the mouldy bread from the kitchen, would you?”

            “Dare I ask what for?” But John was already folding his newspaper and swallowing the last of his tea. Sherlock felt a smile begin to spread across his face. Perhaps things still had a chance to get back to normal.

            “Something mundane and utterly dull.” Sherlock spun around and was pleased to see John’s smile match his own. “We’re going to feed the birds.”

 

            John disapproved at first of going all the way down to Kensington Gardens (“the birds up here are just as hungry, Sherlock”), and then because Sherlock wanted to take a cab down (“The point of a walk is to actually walk, you know”), but eventually they reached the park. The sky was overcast and it smelled like rain, but Sherlock didn’t mind. It meant less people standing about and potentially recognizing him.

            “Have you ever actually done this before?” John asked after Sherlock had stood still for almost five minutes, just staring at the gulls and swans. “Even if you haven’t, bird-feeding is pretty self explanatory.”

            “I know how to feed birds,” Sherlock replied in a long-suffering tone. “I’m merely trying to decide which ones are least likely to attack me in order to get at the food.”

            John laughed. “Right. Swans are utterly vicious, after all.” He untied the bag and took out a slice. Sherlock tried to hide his smirk as he took half and stepped several feet away towards the starlings. He turned his back on John and crouched down, crumbling a corner of the bread onto the ground.

            “Here you go.” He could hear John coaxing the swan- probably holding out the entire half-slice in his palm. “That’s it, a little bit closer- hey!”

            Sherlock chuckled deep in his throat and broke off some more crumbs. He was starting to attract some pigeons, and even a stray duck.

            There was a crunch of gravel as John whirled around, and another startled exclamation. Sherlock looked over his shoulder; a second swan had snuck up behind John, presumably to get at the bag hanging out of his coat pocket.

            “No, that’s not all for you, you greedy thing- get _off!_ ” Yet John seemed hesitant to actually touch the bird, and just began to walk backwards toward Sherlock.

            “Feed him, John, and he’ll go away.”

            “No he won’t, he’ll take the whole bag if I let him- or even if I don’t, come to think of it.” John threw an entire slice on the ground and Sherlock ‘tch’ed in displeasure.

            “Don’t waste the bread, John. The creature can’t chew the whole thing, anyway.” Sherlock shoved the rest of his slice into John’s hands and scooped up the other before the swan could get it. He’d broken it up into manageable pieces and almost finished distributing it between the two birds when he finally noticed John staring at him, a soft expression on his face “What?”

            “You’re good with animals, aren’t you?” John asked. “Look, they’re being _patient_.”

            Sherlock glanced back at the swans; both were sitting quietly, staring at him with expectant eyes, but neither made any moves towards him. “I… never thought about it before.”

            “Well…” John’s eyes twinkled. He approached Sherlock slowly, keeping their eyes locked until their chests were almost pressed together and he had to tilt his head slightly to make up for their difference in height. “I think it’s charming.”

            They stood there like that for a moment, lips barely a centimetre apart, just breathing. Then John stood up on his toes, just the tiniest bit, and pressed their lips together, and Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed. Yes, _this._ This was what kissing should feel like; the soft drag of lips on lips, John’s arms around the back of his neck, the soft panting as they broke apart for breath…

            John’s cheeks coloured and he laughed self-consciously. “Any good?”

            “Look at my pupils.” His voice came out more throaty than he intended, but the effect on John was unmistakeable and not entirely unwanted. “Are they dilated?”

            John swallowed. “They are. A bit. Yes.”

            Sherlock nuzzled forward against John’s nose. “Then do it again.”

            John laughed again, this time in relief, but their lips had barely touched before a loud chirp next to Sherlock’s ear made them flinch and they broke apart to see a tiny starling pecking at the bread that John still held in one of his hands. John threw the bread away with a sound of disgust; the movement startled the bird away at first, but soon an entire flock of them settled down to fight over the slice.

            “Here! Take it all!” John upended the bag and four more slices tumbled to the ground. He realised how bad of a decision that was a moment later as approximately twenty pigeons flew over, along with several gulls, and the swans behind them began to clamber out of the water to get a share.

            Sherlock couldn’t hold in his laughter. He grabbed John’s hand and pulled him out of the circle of birds and they ran, away from the pond and the noise and the people, and didn’t stop until they were in the middle of a group of trees and brush that blocked out the rest of the park. Sherlock gave John a few seconds to catch his breath, then grabbed the lapels of his jacket and kissed him again. He didn’t give John much of a chance to control the kiss, instead trying to get across as much as he could without using his tongue. He tried to apologise for his fears, for his shortcomings, tried to assure John that he loved him, that he would continue to love him, even if John wanted things he could not provide, tried to swear that he didn’t believe a word Moriarty said but it was just so _hard_ sometimes… he tried to say many things, but in the end, when John pulled away, Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d said anything at all.

            “Sherlock?” John touched a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, sounding concerned. “What’s brought this on?”

            Sherlock tried to smile, acutely aware that the lightness of the outing had been ruined. His leg suddenly hurt him much more than it had while running; a distant part of his brain wondered if this was what John’s psychosomatic injury felt like.

            “Nothing,” he said at last. “I wanted to. Didn’t you like it?”

            He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. John smiled sadly and his hand shifted down to rub the back of Sherlock’s neck. It felt nothing like how it did before, during their kiss by the pond.

            “Of course I did,” he replied. “But it’s not…”

            _Not what you wanted._ Sherlock’s lips tightened. John’s expression fell even more, but Sherlock no longer wanted to see it. He turned around and began to walk back towards the entrance to the park. “Come, John, let’s go home.”

            He needed to acquire some more data.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos and bookmarks! I'm glad people are enjoying this. (:
> 
> We're going back to the PAST timeline in the beginning of this chapter, right after John pushes Sherlock up against the fridge. Then, after the scene break, we return to the present timeline. I don't think there are any more flashbacks for the rest of the story after this.
> 
> Trigger warnings, I suppose, for self-harm and mildly impolite thoughts towards those who do it. I don't advocate either.

             _Overreacting,_ Sherlock told himself as he scrubbed the washcloth over his face for what was probably the fifth time. He knew he was overreacting, but no matter how many times he repeated it, he couldn’t seem to stop the behaviour.

            _Absolutely nothing happened._ Well, perhaps not absolutely nothing, but certainly nothing warranting this severe a reaction. John had kissed him, so what? That hardly constituted assault, and besides, they were a couple. It would happen again. He ought to get used to it, learn to like it. John would want him to like it.

            Sherlock’s hands jerked and he dropped the washcloth. Cursing himself, he stooped to pick it up. This wasn’t working. He needed something stronger. Stronger than washing, stronger than nicotine patches, something that would stop him _thinking_.

His thoughts strayed for a moment to his vials, hidden among the rest of the chemistry supplies in his room… But John wouldn’t want him using anything illicit. What did normal people use? Alcohol was an option, but that took time, and they didn’t keep any in the flat. He tangled his fingers in his hair, pulled until his scalp stung-

_Pain._ Of course. How _obvious._ Sherlock stepped out of the shower, dripping, and reached into the medicine cabinet. His and John’s razors sat side by side; John had rinsed his poorly after his last shave. He bypassed the razors and grabbed an empty cartridge; it wouldn’t do to give himself an infection.

Removing a blade was the work of seconds, but as he stood there, naked, in the middle of the bathroom, a chill went down his spine that had nothing to do with the water evaporating from his skin. Was he really about to cut himself like an adolescent over something so trivial as emotional distress? The idea was laughable.

_Does he do everything you say, Sherlock? Do you make him touch you?_

            _Stop thinking about it._ He had to ignore it, delete it somehow, but it was too late for that. His mind had already attached emotional significance to it. It was stuck, for the time being. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose. He would try it. Just this once. As an experiment, to see if it worked. If it didn’t, there was no need to mention it to John and he would find something else. If it did…

            He still wouldn’t need to tell John. Not for the time being, anyway.

            With six small cuts on the inside of his left thigh, Sherlock paused to assess the damage. Bleeding was minimal, as was pain, though that was to be expected. Once the endorphins wore off, he’d be feeling them. Mentally, he felt quite calm. The tingling beneath his skin was gone, and his thoughts had returned to a quiet, steady hum. The patter of the shower behind him was almost soothing, whereas before every drop of water had been like a stinging pinprick against his ears.

            Cleaning and bandaging the wounds was no trouble at all, and as he paced the length of the bathroom a few times to test his leg he found no obstruction to movement. Perhaps this would be an acceptable method of grounding himself. The human body was remarkably capable at healing itself, and there was no danger of impairing his faculties. Sherlock set about to disinfecting the blade and allowed a small smile to play upon his lips.

            John hadn’t meant anything by his advances. It was only a chemical reaction and he’d been too tired to be anything but a slave to his body. He’d be on the lookout, now, and that behaviour certainly wouldn’t be happening again. They’d be able to resume their slow, comfortable progress and forget about this lapse.

            And yet… the memory of John’s erection pressing against his leg still made him queasy. John had seemed so guilty when he came back to himself; surely that would have been enough to dampen his arousal, at least slightly? He didn’t know, and not knowing was unacceptable. Everything he knew about John pointed to him _not_ being interested in violent sex and non-consensual situations, but he couldn’t deny the evidence, slight as it was. He needed more data, something unlikely to happen after…

            _Oh._ Sherlock’s hands clenched around the lip of the sink. John couldn’t be trusted to act on his own, now. He’d be walking on eggshells despite Sherlock’s assurances, determined to prove that he could control himself. He’d never make the first move.

            Which meant that that was now Sherlock’s responsibility.

* * *

 

            Sherlock hissed as he eased his trousers down his legs. Their gallivanting through the park had torn open the cuts again, and the largest one had bled through the gauze he’d used to bandage it. He’d have to set aside the trousers so that John didn’t notice the stain before he could get it out.

            Disgusted, he tossed the clothing aside and reached for the first aid supplies. The cab ride back had been absolutely awful: silent, no eye contact, and an especially awkward moment at the end when both of them had tried to pay the cabbie. Once inside, Sherlock had gone wordlessly into the bathroom before John had managed to do anything more than clear his throat.

            It was highly unlikely that anything serious would come from this; he knew better than to think that John would want to break things off after one fumbled date. But the fact that John had pulled away from him so…

            He shook his head to clear it and wet a cotton swab with alcohol. Any other day, he could have done without John’s affection. In fact, he had several experiments he needed to see to, and he really ought to have spent today peering down his microscope without a thought to John until his eyes and shoulders ached and he wanted soothing hands to rub the tension away, but after Moriarty’s texts… He’d just wanted some proof that John wanted nothing more from him than what he’d said explicitly. The evidence, however, had not been so obliging.

            His mobile suddenly began to ring. Sherlock rolled his eyes but reached into his pocket anyway and balanced it between his shoulder and cheek as he continued cleaning the wound. “Sorry, can’t talk right now, Mycroft, I’m in the loo.”

            “Obviously not using it, or you wouldn’t have answered,” Mycroft replied, sounding almost bored. Sherlock could picture him studying his nails. “I’ll keep my business brief. Do you have any developments to report?”

            “About what?” His voice came out more defensive than he’d intended, and Mycroft paused before he spoke again.

            “Originally, about Moriarty, but now I’m also curious as to how your relationship with Doctor Watson is progressing. I seem to recall seeing you two having a most productive chat in the Gardens this morning…”

            “Goodbye, Mycroft.” Sherlock hung up and placed the phone on the counter. Damn Mycroft and his meddling. He didn’t need to know about any of this. He tore off a strip of tape a bit more roughly than necessary and secured the fresh bandage just as his mobile rang again.

            “Oh for the love of…” Sherlock grabbed his phone, thumb already over the reject call button-

            Except it wasn’t a call. It was a text, from a blocked number. Sherlock hesitated for a moment. Blocked numbers weren’t necessarily dangerous- a few of his clients were important or private people, after all- but at the moment that was hardly a comforting thought. Though his thumb shook as it hovered over the screen, Sherlock clenched his jaw and pressed accept.

_Really, Sherlock? A walk in the park? How utterly tame._

            Well. That wasn’t so bad. He was about to delete it when a second message came through. As his eyes flicked over it, his fingers clenched around his phone until he heard the plastic crack.

            _Maybe add a leash and a muzzle with you crawling on the ground, and THEN he may be interested. Better luck next time._

            If John heard the thud of his phone hitting the wall, he didn’t mention it when Sherlock finally emerged from the bathroom.

 -

            John was miserable. Even if he wouldn’t admit it (and he was most definitely “not talking about it, Sherlock, so stop bringing it up”), it was obvious. Obvious in the way he walked aimlessly about the flat (and about London, for that matter; Sherlock had followed him once or twice in a fit of boredom); obvious by the way he would look at Sherlock and open his mouth, think better of it, shake his head and look away; obvious in the way he would open his computer and stare at the screen for half an hour at a time without typing a word… Oh, it was blindingly simple, and easily fixed, but John was also very stubborn when he wanted to be.

            It had all started the day after their outing to the park, when Sherlock had silently perched beside John on the sofa as he read and laid his head on John’s shoulder. At first everything was all right; John had chuckled and brought up a hand to pet Sherlock’s hair in what was quickly becoming a favourite gesture and Sherlock’s eyes had slipped closed in contentment. It was moments like these in which he could almost forget all about the pool, the texts, _Moriarty_ , and pretend that they were back in the early days of their relationship. But then he’d forgot himself, and leaned forward, trying to capture John’s lips, and John pushed him away, and then he remembered again.

            “Sherlock.” His voice was quiet, a little pained, even. “You never answered me yesterday.”

            “About what?” Sherlock feigned ignorance. “You ask so many questions.” He leaned in again, this time less intent on expressing affection and more about trying to distract, but once more John pushed him away.

            “ _This!_ ” John exclaimed. “The kissing, the cuddling- we went on a proper _date_ yesterday, with no cases or body parts to be seen. What are you trying to do?”

            Sherlock bristled even as he could feel his pulse quicken. Recent anxieties aside, he did feel affection for John, after all. “We’re in a relationship, John. From what I understand, these are the sorts of activities that couples engage in.”

            “Not you, though.” John crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes as if he’d be able to deduce what Sherlock was thinking. “When we started this, you told me that you weren’t interested in ‘normal couple activities.’ Why start now?”

            That deserved the scorn he usually reserved for Anderson. “Did it never occur to you that my preferences might have changed?”

            “No, because you still don’t let me touch you.” Sherlock frowned but John continued before he could speak. “If you’d decided you wanted us to be more intimate, you’d have sat me down with a list of exactly what I was and was not allowed to do to you. But you didn’t say anything, and that might have been okay, except the only time you don’t flinch when I touch you is when you’ve touched me first.”

            “I might just prefer to be in control,” Sherlock replied. He kept his tone light, but inwardly the queasiness was returning. Why did John have to insist on analysing this? He reached out and laid a hand on John’s knee. “Please. I want to do this.”

            “And I _don’t._ ” John shifted his leg so that Sherlock’s hand slipped off. “Look at what you’re doing; how is this any different than what I did after the pool? You’ve got to learn how to take no for an answer once in a while.”

            Sherlock’s voice hardened. “Oh, so my boundaries are only allowed to change when you say so. I see.” John opened his mouth but Sherlock didn’t let him speak. “I wasn’t molesting you, John. I wasn’t assaulting you. I was merely trying to express sentiment. I can see that in future that won’t be necessary.”

            He’d retreated to his room after that, and John had not followed. Thus had started a series of “quiet days” at Baker Street; neither of them spoke to the other- indeed, they rarely even saw each other, as John took up several shifts at the surgery and Sherlock refused to come out of his room until he knew that John was either asleep or gone. But now, six days into their silent treatment (and two days into Sherlock’s spying on John), he could say with a high degree of certainty that something needed to be changed.

            Loathe as he was to admit it, Sherlock had decided to look into Moriarty’s claims about John’s interests and begin researching basic BDSM techniques. Convincing John to accept wouldn’t be too difficult; even with his conscious reservations, it was obvious that the lack of contact was affecting him badly. He might also be more willing to accept if the act had no sexual component; Sherlock was finding several activities that were both intimate yet chaste. In any case, it would be a small sacrifice to make if it could restore their relationship to what passed for normal between them.

            That night, Sherlock took some final notes and began his preparations.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is gonna be a long one. It was originally broken up into two on tumblr, but since that was because I was having trouble writing it, I think I can make it smoother for you here.
> 
> As always, thank you guys so much for the response. After this I may post up a few one shots, but most of my attention will (hopefully) be on my next chaptered fic. Hope to see you soon!

            The evening of the seventh day fell upon the flat with an air that was almost comfortable. Sherlock reclined on the sofa in his ‘thinking’ pose while John sat in his usual chair, watching the telly. The silence between them was much less caustic; given a few more days, Sherlock believed that John would have calmed enough to approach him of his own volition. However, if he waited those few days, John’s offer would almost certainly entail restarting from the beginning of their relationship. John felt guilty for their current situation, but he also felt that he’d been right, and that was the closest compromise he’d be willing to make. It was ridiculous, of course, the notion that they could forget everything that had happened. Besides, it would be so tedious, having to re-advance through all of the steps only to return to the same place a month or two later. If their relationship was going to require certain… activities, they might as well get it over with now. Decided, Sherlock settled down to wait for the end of John’s programme.

            Approximately ten minutes later, the sounds of the television cut off and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. There were still five minutes to go- maybe the episode had been boring. He hadn’t been paying any attention himself. He listened as John stood and stretched and then… silence again. Sherlock kneaded his toes against the leather of the couch, willing himself to be patient. There was a nervous fluttering in his stomach that he hoped would go away before he had to speak. It was imperative that his voice didn’t give away a thing for the next several minutes.

            John was moving. His footsteps crossed the flat- was his limp coming back?- and just as he passed through the door to the stairs, Sherlock spoke.

            “What do you think about bondage?” He let the question hang in the air for a moment. “In your personal relationships, specifically.”

            John took a few steps backwards into the room. He still hadn’t said anything, and Sherlock tried to imagine what his face looked like.

            “I’m asking to see if you would be interested in trying out such a scene with me,” he continued blindly. He knew he ought to open his eyes, to see if he’d gotten it right or completely missed the mark, but the weight of confirmation seemed too daunting at the moment. “It’s only a suggestion, of course. If you’re not interested-”

            “Wait, Sherlock, give us a chance to think,” John interrupted. His voice was closer than expected; Sherlock’s eyes flew open to see him standing by the far end of the couch, expression a mix of fond exasperation and bemusement. “You don’t speak to me for almost a week, and then you bring up kinky sex. What’d you expect, that I’d jump right into bed with you after what we talked about?”

            “It’s not about sex,” Sherlock corrected. “Or at least, not unless you wanted it to be. I’d be fine with it either way.”

            “Would you.” It wasn’t a question. John made to sit down and Sherlock pulled in his legs to make room. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I said yes, I’d love to tie you up. What would you get out of it?”

            “I wouldn’t be asking you to just tie me up and leave me there,” Sherlock replied, irritated. “If you were uncomfortable with us having sex, I’d ask you to flog me, using the riding crop.”

            John’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. “And you’d enjoy that?”

            “It would be… fulfilling.” _No different than taking a beating for you to keep you safe from an enemy on the street. Something I’ve done before and would, certainly, do again._ “Many submissives engage in recreational beatings with their doms with no other reward than the pain. Though that’s not our relationship dynamic, the principle remains the same.” John was still hesitant, but seemed to be coming round to the idea. Sherlock kept his face as serious as he could as he leaned forward. “Don’t worry about me, John. I’ll be in control the entire time. I’ll tell you where to strike, how hard… you won’t hurt me. We need only do it this once if you find you dislike it.”

            This once would prove everything. If John got nothing out of the experience, Sherlock could breathe easier, knowing once and for all that everything Moriarty had said was a lie. They’d be able to start again as if nothing had happened, or could at the very least try. If John enjoyed it, however… Sherlock would adapt.

            John remained quiet for a long moment. Then- “What do you want me to do?”

            The important thing would be to not let his personal preference get in the way of the experiment.

 -

            His hands were bound in front of him, tied with a second loop of rope to the headboard of his bed; John had refused anything more constricting for this first time. (Those words had sent a chill through Sherlock, but he’d made sure to keep his face blank and his voice agreeable. He mustn’t influence the experiment either way.) He still wore his trousers but his torso was bare and it was hard to keep himself from squirming under John’s gaze as he studied him from across the room.

            John had been watching him quietly for several minutes now. Sherlock shifted his weight from one knee to the other, trying to find a more comfortable position. The fabric of his trousers was rubbing against his cuts; he’d have to take care not to move too much during the scene. His muscles kept tensing disobediently in anticipation of the first hit. Why wouldn’t John just _say_ something already?

            “Where do you want me to hit you?” John’s voice was almost so low as to be non-existent and Sherlock swallowed against a suddenly dry throat.

            “The… trapezius muscles along the upper back are safe, provided you don’t get too close to my spine. The deltoids are acceptable as well and-” Sherlock snapped his teeth together to stifle a groan as the first hit landed. The tight smack of the crop echoed through the still air in time to the stinging point of contact on Sherlock’s left shoulder.

            “And?” John prompted quietly after a minute had gone by. It took Sherlock a moment to remember what he was referring to.

            “I don’t mind if you hit my obliques or lower back, but be wary of organs.” Sherlock swallowed again. He was already beginning to sweat, and the lack of data on John was making it hard for him to plan ahead. John hadn’t mentioned anything about this becoming a sexual encounter, but oftentimes sex was a spontaneous thing. From this position he’d have no way of ascertaining John’s physical or mental state, no guide to base his reactions around. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Go on.”

            There was a pause, then a string of three hits, descending diagonally from his right shoulder to his left hip. Sherlock felt a faint stir of approval as John altered the force appropriately between sites. The one on his hip he’d felt through his trousers. The one on his lower back, hardly at all. He didn’t have much time to reflect, however, as two sharp slaps just above his waistline distracted him.

            John settled into a rhythm fairly quickly, letting each resounding smack fade from the air before he struck again. Wide swathes of numb heat blossomed across Sherlock’s back and he tried to narrow his focus to only those points as he waited for his mind to clear.

            _Focus on the pattern._ It was predictable; the whistling of the crop as it moved through the air, John’s grunt of exertion as it made contact, the quick, flaring sting that dwindled away to a deep burning beneath his skin… It was mesmerizing, and for several minutes Sherlock could almost pretend that he enjoyed this, that he wanted John to hit him for hours and never stop.

            _See? I told you this would happen._

            Sherlock twitched, hands curling into loose fists. _No._ Those thoughts had no place here, not while he was with John.

            _This is his favourite fantasy, Sherlock. The thought of you tied up and helpless while he whips you, fucks you… he couldn’t count how many times he’d gone to bed thinking about it when I asked him. And he knows that even if one day you push him just that teensy bit over the line and his careful little mask breaks, you won’t stop him. You’ll want it. Because you love him._

            Sherlock growled under his breath. Moriarty was _wrong._ There was no way that John, kind, caring, gentle John, could have hidden something like that from him. John was doing exactly as Sherlock had asked. He’d said nothing, made no movement to hint that he was aiming for this to go any further. Sherlock had tried not to lend John’s early reluctance any undue significance, but now, perhaps, he could hope that the experiment would turn out favourably, that any minute now John would lay down the crop and tell Sherlock that _no, I’m not really getting the point of this, why don’t I stop and hold you on the couch and forget this ever happened?_

            …Except John wasn’t stopping. If anything, his blows were getting stronger. His breathing was growing more laboured, and he was hitting more often in an increasingly random placement. Sherlock listened carefully, trying to decide if it was simple exertion that was making John sloppy or arousal, but each hit of the crop felt like it was landing on raw skin and it took a considerable amount of self-control to keep himself quiet and still.

            Perhaps… he’d come to his conclusion too early? He was always telling John not to theorize without all the facts, and there were still approximately five to seven minutes left before John’s arm tired. He might suggest changing activities. Sherlock could feel his stomach clenching, whether in fear or disgust he wasn’t sure.

            The next hit caught him unawares, smashing into his right shoulder with twice the force of John’s previous blows. Sherlock couldn’t help but flinch away, though he did manage to hold in a cry of surprise. Another landed on his hip, then his side, then his other shoulder; he knew he ought to keep still, that he was influencing John far too much by struggling this way, but the pain was no longer dulled as it had been and his heart was pounding in his chest. -

            But he was too far in to say no now. He’d set the experiment in motion, he had to see it through to the end, even if the results were not to his liking. John had poured so much of his energy into this relationship, persisting through all of Sherlock’s reservations and hang ups and accepting them with such little fuss… If this thing would satisfy John, Sherlock was willing to make the sacrifice.

            Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t help but tense up; he was soaked with sweat and could no longer focus on controlling his body. If John wanted sex now, he might bloody well get it over with. Sherlock closed his eyes.

            “You all right?”

            “Fine,” he panted. “You can keep going, if you like.”

            John didn’t say anything. Sherlock pictured him glancing up and down his body, studying his handiwork. “You’re going to have bruises tomorrow.”

            Sherlock suppressed a shiver. “I know. It’s all right.” Why wouldn’t John just get on with it? The hand on his shoulder wasn’t gripping very tightly. Rather, John’s thumb seemed to be stroking along the muscle in a way meant to be _soothing._ “As long as it doesn’t interfere with functionality for the cases, I don’t mind.”

            John paused again. “I think I do. Your entire back’s flushed.”

            “I haven’t safeworded,” Sherlock replied tersely. “Keep going.”

            “I don’t want to.”

            Sherlock’s fists clenched again. He could hold his composure for only so long; John had to do it now or not at all. “Obviously you did, or you wouldn’t have agreed to do it in the first place. Do you want me to beg for it? Either-” his voice cracked but he pushed blindly on- “either fuck me or flog me but don’t just _stand there_ and-”

            “Red.” John stepped backwards and there was a clatter as the crop fell to the floor. Sherlock’s eyes opened wide and he twisted to look over his shoulder at John in disbelief.

            A quick scan of his body revealed a complete lack of arousal. Relief flooded Sherlock’s veins and, despite his confusion, the tension went out of his muscles in seconds. Slumped against the bonds, he was distantly aware of John’s sigh and his movements as he picked up the crop and put it away. A few moments later he sat down on the bed beside Sherlock and laid a hand on his shoulder again, rubbing at the sore muscle.

            “How about we get you untied?” he asked. He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s response before reaching for the ropes, and Sherlock watched him blankly as his arms were freed and then lightly massaged to restore normal blood flow. His wrists had been slightly chafed by his struggling at the end, but it was hardly noticeable compared to his back.

            “I don’t understand,” he said at last when it didn’t seem like John would be volunteering any information. “What are you doing?”

            John glanced at his face briefly before returning his attention to Sherlock’s wrists. “Dealing with another bout of your idiocy, it would seem.”

            Exhausted as he was, the comment still nettled him. “What have I done?”

            “Oh, nothing much.” The sarcasm in John’s voice was evident. “Just coerced me into  beating you black and blue when you didn’t even want to do it in the first place.”

            “Of course I wanted to do it.” Really, John was worried about consent? It was Sherlock who’d suggested the idea in the first place. “Everything was pointing to it being an activity that you would enjoy.”

            “That’s not the point, Sherlock, I-” John breathed out heavily through his nose and rubbed at the area between his eyes. When he spoke again his voice had gentled, though Sherlock could hear the strain beneath it. “I know you didn’t enjoy it. I also know that you did it for a reason. What I can’t figure out is why.”

            Nothing was making sense. So John didn’t appreciate either traditional displays of affection or basic S&M techniques? But Moriarty had said… “Why did you safeword? You weren’t finished, and I was perfectly willing to let you go on if you wanted.”

            “No, you weren’t. You were trying to get away, and when you said…” John trailed off, expression somewhere between pained and angry. “That’s not what someone sounds like when they want something, Sherlock. You were in pain, and you were frightened.”

            “I wasn’t _frightened._ ” This entire conversation was making him feel distinctly uncomfortable. He’d quite obviously gotten it wrong again, and he still hadn’t the faintest idea what John wanted from him. Perhaps he ought to look over Moriarty’s texts again, see if he’d missed some clue.

            “Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

            He ignored the jibe as he got up from the bed, and focused his attention on straightening out the creases in his trousers. “I believe I can take care of myself from this point, John, thank you. If you could-”

            “Sherlock?” John interrupted. He sounded preoccupied. “You haven’t been… playing with anyone else, have you?”

            The question was absurd enough that Sherlock didn’t think before replying. “Of course I haven’t. I’ve barely left the flat this… week.” He turned to face John and froze.

            John was staring at the bed; right underneath where Sherlock had been kneeling, tiny drops of blood stained the white sheets.

            “Get out.” Sherlock’s throat was tight. Electricity crackled under his skin. He was still half naked and his back hurt and John had _seen_ and he was still sitting there and his face looked sort of how it did when Sherlock said something a bit not good except this was much worse and he didn’t want to see it anymore and _why_ wasn’t John _moving?_

            He lunged forward, grabbing for John’s wrist, but John slid backwards off the bed and held up his hands in a defensive position. Sherlock glared up at him from his knees on the bed. “Get out of my room. _Now._ ”

            John shook his head. “Not when you’re like this. I know I didn’t hit you anywhere except your back, so where are you bleeding from? I need to look at you.”

            Sherlock’s lip curled. “Is this what you’re into, then? Fixing me up when I’m broken? I should have known, what with you being a doctor.”

            John’s hands lowered incrementally, his brows furrowing in confusion. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. I’m not ‘into’ anything, I just want to see if you’re okay.”

            “Stop lying!” Sherlock’s nerves were stretched thin already, and he just wanted to shake John and tell him to stop playing, for they still had to be; it wouldn’t make sense otherwise. “Just _tell_ me what you want. I obviously haven’t been able to figure it out, and I’m sick of this game.”

            John lowered his arms to his sides. He still seemed wary, but willing to accept the opportunity. “You want me to tell you what I want? And you’ll do it?”

            Sherlock slumped over onto his side, defeated, and his eyes slipped closed. “Yes. I don’t care what it is. Just say it already.”

            “In that case…” John perched on the bed beside Sherlock, muscles lightly tensed in case he needed to run from another attack. His clothing rustled as he moved his arm- Sherlock tried to keep himself from flinching at this last, important touch- and then there was a warm hand in his hair, and John’s thumb stroking sweat-soaked curls away from his face. A soft sound left his throat against his will. “John, please-”

            “I want you,” John whispered, “to tell me what’s wrong.”

            Sherlock opened his eyes. John smiled at him; he obviously intended to be reassuring, but there was something akin to pain in his gaze. Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow in order to study him more closely.

            “And please don’t ask me how I know that there’s something wrong,” John continued. “We already had that conversation, and look how it ended.”

            “Nothing is _wrong_ ,” Sherlock insisted, despite the twinge of uncertainty he felt in his stomach. Had John finally abandoned the game? “I merely thought that this would-”

            “Please me, I know,” John said. “What I want to know is where you got that idea in the first place.”

            “It was obvious.” Sherlock met John’s eyes and saw him quickly settle into the mindset he got when trying to keep up with Sherlock’s deductions at a crime scene. Not playing anymore, then. “You hadn’t been appreciating the more ‘vanilla’ gestures I’d been using to show my affections towards you. Logically, my actions were not pleasing to you, and I needed to find another way to express myself that would be acceptable.”

            Oh, this was ridiculous. He’d lost John already. He was looking about the room, tongue poking out between his lips as he tried to think about what to say next.

            “So you thought that just because I didn’t want you kissing me- right after I’d assaulted you, remember- that meant I wanted to tie you up and whip you bloody?”

            Sherlock groaned. He’d have run his fingers through his hair if that didn’t mean that John would likely remove his. “The whipping served two functions, in truth, but I had it on good authority that it would be a satisfying activity for you. I still don’t understand why we’re sitting here talking and not doing something more…” he hesitated over the word. “…intimate.”

            “On good authority?” John seemed torn between amusement and consternation at the phrase. “Who were you talking to about my sex life?”

            Sherlock didn’t answer. Perhaps he’d said too much. But John was catching on quickly, and his eyes widened as his conclusion dawned on him.

            “Did you… you weren’t honestly listening to what _Moriarty_ said? Sherlock, I told you right there and then that he was lying!”

            “You _said_ nothing at all,” Sherlock snapped back, feeling an uncomfortable heat rising in his cheeks. He knew he’d been played for the fool, had known it all along, but… “His text messages were… very persuasive.”

            John’s voice was dark. “Texts? He’s been texting you?”

            “Don’t get any ideas. I’ve deleted them all.” He hadn’t, of course; if this idea had panned out differently, he’d have gone through them to find another suggestion. John could probably see through his lie, but didn’t call him out on it.

            “You could have actually talked to me about all of this, you know,” John said, “instead of just going off and assuming I liked kinky sex. When we started this, I didn’t think you wanted sex at all.” He ducked his head down slightly, trying to catch Sherlock’s eye. “Is that still true?”

            Sherlock didn’t say anything for a moment as he collected his thoughts.

            “I… don’t want to have intercourse with you,” he said at last, “or ever do this-” he gestured around the room- “again. What I said when we started this relationship still stands, and I do appreciate you… going slowly. That doesn’t mean that everything I did was due to Moriarty’s interference,” he added sharply before John’s emotions could show too clearly on his face. “When I kissed you at the park, I meant it.”

            “You flinched whenever I touched you.” John’s voice was a little tight, and he’d removed his hand from Sherlock’s hair. “And even when you didn’t, I knew you wanted to. I don’t want to think that I forced you into-” He made to stand up, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

            “I was working on it,” he said urgently. It was important that John knew this; otherwise he’d be tempted to call things off, and that was unacceptable. “I know that I was uncomfortable being touched, especially after Moriarty started sending those texts. But remember, John, it wasn’t like that when we started. I was only trying to get back to where we were before.”

            “What d’you mean, working on it?” John looked suspicious again, but Sherlock didn’t dare let guilt seep into his expression.  He’d done nothing wrong, it had been a perfectly fine coping mechanism-

            “Is that what you meant when you said ‘two functions’?” John asked. “That you were using me as some sort of bloody _punishment_ for yourself?” His voice was getting louder and he wrenched his wrist out of Sherlock’s grasp. “That’s what the blood was from, wasn’t it?”

            Sherlock glared at him. Damn John for choosing this moment to become observant.

            “It wasn’t going to become a permanent arrangement,” he said, keeping his voice hard. “I knew exactly what I was doing, and it worked… to a point.”

            “Until you needed me to do it for you.” John rubbed his hands over his face and was quiet for a minute. “I need to see them.”

            Sherlock’s face twitched. “Why? I’m perfectly fine-”

            “You’re _bleeding_ ,” John pointed out. “I promise, I’m not going to do anything but look at them, but you’ve obviously torn something open, and I want to see what you’ve done to yourself.”

            Sherlock studied John’s eyes quietly. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

            “Just let me see.” Of course he wasn’t going to be swayed that easily. Sherlock huffed out a sigh, trying to look more irritated than he felt, and reached for his zipper. His hands hesitated for a moment, then he finally pulled it down with more force than necessary and turned his face away.

            John’s soft “hm” was a slightly reassuring reaction, but Sherlock couldn’t help tensing his thighs at the first brush of John’s fingers.

            “Hallucination,” he muttered after John had remained still for almost twenty seconds. “From that day on the couch. I’m fine.”

            John made another quiet noise and continued his examination, tugging Sherlock’s trousers a bit lower. Sherlock winced as he felt the fabric catch, and then John must have seen the largest one, for he sat back and rubbed a hand over his face.

            “Why haven’t you bandaged these?” he asked. “This one, at least, you should probably have tried to stitch up.”

            “I did bandage them,” Sherlock corrected. “Before. But based on what I was expecting from this evening, I thought it better to leave them bare.”

            “What you were expecting.” John really needed to stop repeating everything he said. “Did you think I’d seriously ignore bleeding wounds in favour of having sex with you?”

            Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “I… had expected you to be in the state of mind to consider it less important.”

            “And now we’ve come full circle.” John stood. “I’m going to get some supplies from the bathroom and fix you up, and then we can get everything straight, all right? I don’t want this happening again.”

            “I’d appreciate not being spoken to like a child,” Sherlock replied mildly, “but if it’ll make you happy, go ahead.”

            John’s lips tightened, but the tension in his shoulders had lessened by the time he returned, and he even seemed to be sporting the beginnings of a smile.

            “Budge over.” He sank down onto the bed and took out some disinfectant cream. “So I’m not going to insult your intelligence- or try not to, at least- but I’m going to tell you now that I don’t care if we never have sex, and you don’t have to try and placate me or give me anything at all.” He glanced up at Sherlock’s face. “Does that make sense?”

            “Of course it makes sense.” Yet the words made the tight little ball that had been sitting heavy inside his gut for almost two weeks grow a bit looser. Sherlock fidgeted as John tended to the next few cuts; it was obvious that John was using the silence to draw out a further explanation, and normally he wouldn’t fall prey to that sort of thing, except he really wanted John to understand.

            “I wasn’t doing it because I was afraid, or because I was depressed, John, you must know that. I…” How could he justify it when he’d known the entire time what was going on? “My thoughts were unacceptable. I knew Moriarty was lying, but each time he texted me, he was growing that seed of doubt he’d planted at the pool. I just wanted it to stop without… I didn’t use any drugs.” It was very important for John to know that part.

            John mulled that over for a few moments. “But when we slept together, I didn’t hear you get a text. You just got up and left. You did it when I made you uncomfortable.”

            “I did it when I was remembering what Moriarty said to me,” Sherlock corrected. “I told you it wasn’t your fault.”

            “But if I made you remember what he said-”

            “It wasn’t about you.” Sherlock pulled his legs out of John’s reach. “I couldn’t delete it, and I needed a way to forget. It worked, to a point, but I couldn’t simply put our relationship on hold until I’d gotten over it.”

            “Again, you could’ve talked to me.” John reached out his hand. “Come back. I’m not done yet.”

            Sherlock glared at him, but eventually stretched out his legs again. “If you’re looking for an apology, I’m not going to give you one.”

            “Wasn’t expecting you to,” John replied smoothly. He was working on the largest cut now, dabbing it gently with the cream. Sherlock watched him in silence for a little while. John seemed so comfortable touching him now, with none of his previous tetchiness or concern or even the quiet rejection he’d shown at times during Sherlock’s bolder moments. It was reassuring to know that he still felt this way underneath everything else, or at least that he was still capable of acting as though he did. There was still one piece of information, however, that Sherlock needed before he’d accept the picture as fact. He waited until John had almost finished before he spoke again.

            “Can you explain something to me?”

            John bit back a joke- it was obvious in the way that his eyes were twinkling and how his lips twisted slightly to the side- but thankfully he restrained the urge. “Yes, Sherlock?”

            “And this is the only time I’ll be asking, so be very precise about it.”

            “I promise I will be. What is it?”

            “You still want to pursue a relationship with me,” Sherlock said quickly. “You told me you don’t expect sex, but not in a way that implied that you wanted to end things. Yet before tonight, when I tried to initiate contact that wasn’t sexual, you declined, and you accepted my offer of a bondage and flogging situation. The facts don’t add up.”

            The smile slipped off John’s face.

            “I know. And I’m sorry.” He sighed, glanced at the bed, then cleared off the supplies and lay down on his side facing Sherlock. “Get comfortable, I’ve an explanation I owe you.”

            Once Sherlock had lain down, mindful of his injuries, John laid a gentle hand on his waist that, for the first time since this whole mess had started, felt comforting.

            “I suppose, looking back on it,” John started, “I was being a bit of an idiot. _Don’t_ say anything.” Sherlock smirked but let John go on. “And it was a bit difficult to trust what you were saying. I mean, after what I did to you, I’d no idea what you were thinking. You didn’t seem to be acting like yourself so I just assumed you were kissing me and taking me out to the park because you thought I needed it.”

            “I did enjoy kissing you, though,” Sherlock murmured. “And the Gardens turned out to be far more enjoyable than I’d predicted.”

            “And that’s good.” John’s eyes softened, and his hand came up to stroke Sherlock’s cheek; his next move was so ridiculously telegraphed that Sherlock ought to have refused it on principle, but instead he let his eyes slip closed as John leaned in and pressed their lips together, holding them there with the faintest pressure.

            “You’re an amazing man,” John whispered against his lips. “Even when you’re being extraordinarily dense. I’m sorry I put you through all this, especially tonight. It had just been so long, and since you suggested it, I figured…”

            “That I wanted it,” Sherlock finished, and a slow smile spread across his face as an identical one spread across John’s.

            “We’re a right pair of idiots, aren’t we?” John remarked.

            “Perhaps.” Sherlock threaded his fingers through John’s hair and pulled him in for another kiss. “But now that you’ve diagnosed the problem, doctor, I’m sure you won’t have any trouble rectifying the situation.”

 -

            “Grab the bread, John, I’ll be out in a minute.” Sherlock closed the door to the bathroom and pulled his mobile from his pocket. There was a new text on the screen from an unidentified number. He had a good idea of who it was from, but he hadn’t wanted to read it with John in the room; he’d taken to reading most of Sherlock’s texts over his shoulder this past week and it wouldn’t do for John to get upset today. Steeling himself, Sherlock pressed the accept button.

            _You’ve done a good job of training him, I’ll admit. But don’t think you’re out of the woods yet._

            Sherlock studied the text for a while, waiting to see what emotions bubbled up. At the very least he expected to feel anger, maybe a stab of apprehension, irritation that Moriarty was making these sorts of assumptions about John…

            But nothing came. He prodded the memories of earlier texts, trying to pinpoint exactly what it was about them that had made them seem so awful before, but they were fading like a deduction from Anderson into the cobwebs of his mind palace. Moriarty was beaten- if he had as much surveillance over them as he claimed he must know that- yet he continued to bark out threats like a small yapping dog.

            Sherlock knew that he would probably never find out what, if anything, John and Moriarty had talked about that night before he’d shown up at the pool- John refused to discuss it- but really, it didn’t matter. John had proven his loyalty, time and again, and if he’d been easy to read before, he was all but transparent now when it came to their relationship. He’d never admit it, but Sherlock found it comforting, not having to guess what John wanted or if he was being a “proper” boyfriend (not that John would have been satisfied with that anyway). He still deduced most things, but now he did it out loud where John could correct him if he got details wrong.

            His cuts were mostly healed; John checked them every night, ostensibly to see if they were healing well- Sherlock let it go unsaid that he was making sure there were no new ones. There never were, but he allowed John the concern. It helped remind him of certain promises.

            Sherlock rubbed his thumb experimentally over the cuts through his trousers. His box still sat in the second drawer beside his bed. John had never found it, and he never would; once they came back from the park, he planned on throwing it away. This entire damn month would be behind them, and not a moment too soon.

            Sherlock smiled as he deleted the text. A moment later he pressed Delete All and exited the bathroom to the sweet sound of both his inbox and his mind being cleared.


End file.
